The trees, who have inexplicably decided that nudity
serves the cold, wash over the blacktop in a spill of
tawny veins. November spins frost where once moods
pooled. In a loop a sky failing nothing but this death
of autumn on pavement and traffic sands falls through
each phase in a blink that stutters. She wants warm
cooking to ease the chill from her hands. The burden
of mothers sums all familial marks in the arc of her
loving the kitchen with thankful motion. As male, I
wash in the lighter stones of strange birds calling my
eyes glued shut to a physics of remorse. This season
is good for stripping.
11/28/02
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Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
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BURLESQUE AND THANKFUL
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Type: discussion